Back in the seventies, one of my sisters spent a summer clopping around in Dr. Scholl’s with white cotton socks. Supposedly it was doctor’s orders—he said she had an allergy to the rubber in sneakers—but what kind of doctor would prescribe Dr. Scholl’s for an eight-year-old tomboy? Probably she badgered our mother for them. Naturally desirous of anything a sibling had that I did not, I tried out the Scholl’s one day, and naturally fell off (or out of) them, twisting my ankle and jabbing the arch of my foot with the hard edge of the shoe.
Childhood impressions die hard, and thereafter wooden-soled shoes were out of the question. But decades later, I found myself trying on Troentorp clogs. I liked that the uppers were attached to the soles with tiny silver nails, not staples, and that they were made by an old-school Swedish company. The clearance price also helped—I had little to lose.
What other shoe can inspire a brief jig while, say, waiting for a file at the printer? Maybe it has something to do with how, in a traditionally designed clog, the heel height, the tread, and the space beneath the toe are all precisely aligned to make walking on an inflexible wood sole not just doable, but delightful (think clog dancers). And maybe it’s that purity of design, or more accurately, its mix of complexity and simplicity, that is so compelling.
Clogs date back at least to Roman times, when men and women wore wooden shoes called Tyrrhenian sandals to the bathhouses. In the 1500s, affluent ladies wore a variation called a “patten,” basically a galosh, to protect their fancy fabric footwear, but eventually the clog—and the French sabot and the Spanish pantofle—became common among peasants and servants. These days people in sturdy, no-nonsense professions, cooks and nurses most notably, are often huge clog fans.
That’s another aspect of clogs’ appeal: Their vibe is hardworking yet quirky and, thanks to their long association with Scandinavians, socialistic—a different spin entirely than that of the crunchy Germany Birkenstock. Birkenstock even attempts to co-opt some of that vibe by calling various of its styles “clogs,” which points to a larger and serious problem: the corruption of the clog.
First, there’s the confusion of “slides” and “mules” with clogs; the most repellant among these styles have ungainly polyester fleece collars and backs that rise to cover just the smallest sliver of heel. Talk about a lack of commitment. The backs of real clogs are closed or open; there is no in between. This not-really-closed-or-open style has become commonplace on all kinds of shoes, and while it’s difficult to articulate, I feel strongly that there is a link between its popularity and the Democrats’ infuriating neither-here-nor-there dilemma. Then there are abominations like sneaker clogs and brightly colored plastic Crocs; the former have a troubling persistence, while the latter, I suspect, will soon go the way of Jellies. Then you’ve got spike-heeled clogs and platform clogs and the “sweater clog” offered by Steve Madden last year. Surely no one would try to make a sweater emulate a clog—why force a clog to adopt the characteristics of a sweater?
When faced with so many variations (or bastardizations) of style and function, it’s necessary to stick with the classics. But they needn’t be boring. Besides Dansko’s patent-leather and crazily striped styles, there’s always inspiration to be found trawling eBay. One vintage pair that tragically got away had huge, Pilgrim-like brass buckles—an acceptable novelty since they were produced by the venerable clog-maker Olof Daughters. My best find by far has been a vintage open-back style whose mysterious long-haired fur and elfin toes inspired observers to make cinematic references (Matthew Barney’s Cremaster films, Lord of the Rings), or to tell me it looked like I was wearing hamsters. Some things are too bizarre to resist. Now, with warm weather approaching, cute perforated clogs are cropping up, and I realize that this is a worthy obsession for all seasons. —Julie Caniglia
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